


I Can Be The Answer

by felonazcorp



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Max Puts His Mouth To Good Use, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felonazcorp/pseuds/felonazcorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max's hands are huge and hard, his fingers square and blunt and callused, his skin rough and warm, and while there is a part of her — a scared, fourteen year old part of her — that wants to shy away from his touch, the rest of her, the hardened Road Warrior rest of her, pushes into his hands as if to prove to herself that she can do this, she is just as capable as anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Be The Answer

**Author's Note:**

> From the kink meme: "I know we have all these prompts about Nux showing Capable what mutually enjoyable sex is like, but I think the chances that Furiosa has ever had consensual sex with somebody who cared about her pleasure are about as vanishingly small as Capable's.
> 
> I'd love to see Max realise this, that despite how in charge she comes across in most ways, he is by far the more experienced one about this, and to sweetly, carefully introduce her."
> 
> http://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/450.html?thread=89538#cmt89538

She has not been touched in years. 

Max's hands are huge and hard, his fingers square and blunt and callused, his skin rough and warm, and while there is a part of her — a scared, fourteen year old part of her — that wants to shy away from his touch, the rest of her, the hardened Road Warrior rest of her, pushes into his hands as if to prove to herself that she can do this, she is just as capable as anyone else. 

His huge hands, which had been skimming up her legs, stop. 

Silence reigns for a moment, and finally she lifts her head to see what made him stop, knowing he won't actually _tell_ her. 

He's hovering over her, braced on his knees, hunched over her legs like he's protecting her from a blast, but his eyes are trained on her face, huge and dark in his now-clean face. The look in them has her gut clenching, something between desire and shame churning in her belly. Is her fear that obvious?

She tries to cling to imperiousness. It has always worked in the past. 

“Go on.” Her voice is steady, she's pleased to find. She does not sound nervous or scared. She sounds like Furiosa, scourge of the open road, the Warrior who took down the godlike Immortan Joe and rose from his ashes to mold the Citadel into a brand new Green Place.

Max is not swayed. 

He stays on his knees between hers, his hands barely resting on the curve of her thighs, warm and steady through the thick fabric of her trousers. Still, he says nothing, though his hands flex once, briefly, fingertips pressing into the muscles of her thighs. He hums lowly, a quiet rumble under his breath that sounds like engines on the horizon, and slowly, he hunches even lower. 

He had been fumbling before, his broad hands made clumsy with haste and desire, but now they are almost delicate as he skims them deliberately higher to hold on to her hips. 

The churning in her belly has returned, but Furiosa does not let it show. 

He does not reach for her belt. Instead, he slips his fingertips beneath the dirty fabric of her shirt, pressing them into the hard muscles of her belly, slowly sliding his hands up to her waist, her shirt bunching up about his wrists. His head, lowered as it is, comes to rest against her navel, his breath puffing warm and wet over her skin. She shivers, surprise making her lift her good hand to cradle the back of his head, her fingers sliding through his close-cropped hair, toying with the cowlick that stands upright ridiculously no matter what he does to it. 

He hums again, this time flush against her skin, and the vibrations have her gasping. 

His hands slide higher, cupping her ribs delicately between hard palms, his mouth skimming along after them, not quite kissing, not quite biting, just the slow drag of his lips across her skin that leaves a shimmering sort of heat in their wake like a mirage forming in the glare of the sun. 

Her breasts are small and tight, whatever milk they might once have born long ago withered to dust, but that does not seem to bother him. His hands engulf them easily as he mouths at the edge of her ribs, her belly hollowed when she arches into the press of his palms, heat pooling where her nerves once sat, the barest slip of a sigh sliding out between her teeth as his tongue draws a slow line between her ribs. 

It feels as if there is no time between that wet lick to her ribs and his tongue pressing against her nipple, and Furiosa realizes, dimly, that she has lost her shirt somewhere. It is difficult to care with Max's head ducked down to her chest, his full lips soft as he plucks at her nipple with them, the blunt edge of his crooked teeth careful when he bites. She is aware that he is testing her, seeing what she likes, and so she lets herself tell him, lets herself gasp and shiver, lets a low moan seep through her teeth when he sucks first one nipple, then the other; long, powerful pulls as if he is nursing for milk from her meager chest. Furiosa is no mother, and she has no milk to sustain him, but the pull of his mouth has a wet heat pooling low between her legs, and she finds she has clamped them around him, her ankles locked at the small of his back, her knees pinching his ribs, her hips lifting to push against his. 

In the seven thousand days since she had been stolen from The Green Place, the only time Furiosa locked her legs around a man was when she was trying to kill him. 

She is shocked by how good it feels to have her legs so tightly wrapped around his waist, the solid bulk of his body hardly giving at all as she squeezes, though he does rattle a low groan against her breast when she pulls at his hair and grinds her hips to his. 

“Max,” she breathes, pulling his hair again, twisting beneath him; restless, needy. 

He rumbles like an engine, his kiss-swollen lips quirking at her, and he ducks his head to her breasts again to tease her. 

“ _Max_ ,” she tries again, more strident this time, more forceful. 

The puff of air from his laughter washes across her wet skin like a cold breeze and she whines quietly, her skin puckering, goosebumps crawling down her arms. 

“Okay, okay.” 

His voice, rough with disuse, is obviously amused, and he hides his grin in her skin as he slides down her body again, getting closer and closer to her belt. This time, she is not so scared, and so she lets her knees fall open so he can have the space to move, his hands no longer fumbling as he pulls her trousers down over her hips. She helps him, as best as she can, twisting and pulling her legs up so she can push at the heavy fabric and get it off her as quickly as possible, but by the time she is naked, she realizes she is afraid again. 

Not of Max, not really. He has proven to her that he will do anything she asks of him, anything at all. She knows, without needing to be told, that if she told him to stop, he would. He would slink off, hard and wanting, and would perhaps pleasure himself with his fist or perhaps he would ignore his hardness until it went away. He will not force her. 

He is not Joe. 

But still, having him kneeling between her legs when she is so naked makes her uneasy. She has had men stand between her legs like this before, though usually only when she was chained in place. Furiosa had never let anyone fuck her willingly, and even at fourteen, she had needed to be tied down so she could be mounted and bred without the threat of her damaging anyone, even herself. Her legs and her arms are free now, but there is still that moment of terror that spikes through her, and she knows Max knows it is there. 

He has also been chained. He knows what it is like. 

He ducks his head again, kissing her belly, kissing the barely-there silvery scars that radiate across her skin, marks of babies long ago dead. She expects him to straighten and reach for his own belt but he surprises her, mouthing further down her belly, obviously heading for her cunt. 

Confused, she reaches for his hair again, but this time he will not let himself be dissuaded; those broad shoulders winkle their way between her thighs, his mouth hot and wet against her skin, and almost before she knows what is happening, he has circled his arms around her legs and has ducked his head low to the curls between her thighs, his breath maddeningly hot against skin that has felt no touch but her own for thousands of days. 

The first touch of his tongue to her labia has her gasping. It is hot, and slick, and the way he laps at her has her shuddering already, her half-aborted attempt to squirm away from him utterly forgotten. Instead, she tightens her fingers in his hair and pushes him closer, sliding her legs over his shoulders and digging her heels into his spine. He rumbles against her flesh, seemingly pleased, and the gentle lapping of his tongue becomes more purposeful. 

He knows what he's doing, she realizes dimly, her hips lifting without her input to meet his mouth. He has done this before. He has had a woman, maybe a _wife_ , someone with whom he could lie at night and press his mouth to. 

Irrationally, she is jealous of this phantom probably-dead woman. (Certainly-dead woman. Max would not leave a wife unless she was dead.) 

That someone else has experienced this when she did not know it existed seems unfair. 

He rumbles almost continually between her thighs as his mouth works, purring like a motorcycle between her legs, vibrations skittering along her skin making her gasp and moan as she clutches at him. Even though she is lying prone on her bed, she feels like she's on the open road, pleasure bubbling beneath her sternum, and she is so caught up in this feeling that her climax catches her by surprise.

There have been nights when Furiosa slid her hand between her thighs to try and get herself to sleep, and so she is not wholly ignorant of orgasms, but she has no often felt the urge to touch herself so perhaps she is out of practice. But even on the nights when she did tremble at the touch of her fingers, she never felt like this, like her body is a balloon filled with too much air, like an engine about to shake apart on a dusty road. 

She cries out sharply, her back bowing as her abdomen clenches, her thighs pressing tight around his ears as she shudders violently, only her grip on his hair keeping him in place against her. 

She trembles, and she moans, and finally, eventually, she stops. 

Max is still between her thighs, his mouth remaining pressed against her cunt, open and wet, waiting to see what it is she wants from him. 

Her belly still fluttering with aftershocks, Furiosa forces herself to unhook her legs from his shoulders, letting her thighs splay open, revealing a flushed and sweaty-looking Max between her legs, his cheeks pink and his chin wet and his stupid mouth curled in a satisfied grin. 

“Shut up,” she grumbles, pleased when he laughs, allowing him to get his knees under himself again, expecting him to crawl up between her thighs and slide his cock into her. 

She would let him. She would wrap her arms and her legs around him and let him fuck her and know that it doesn't always mean she has to be afraid. Perhaps she would even like it. She knows some women like it, that it doesn't always mean pain and the threat of babies. 

She thinks she would like it.

But Max doesn't crawl far, only scoots a little closer and rests his head on her stomach, his sticky chin digging into her abdomen as he settles down. Her legs are still splayed open about him, but he makes no move to undress and take her invitation, just nuzzles at her stomach and curls his arms up and around her. 

Slowly, curiously, Furiosa settles her hand in his hair again, petting him slowly the way she vaguely remembers petting a dog, her legs lifting to cradle him as he rumbles against her again. She wants to ask him why he didn't fuck her, but she knows he won't answer. So instead she runs her fingers over his scalp, ruffling his hair, and lets him fall asleep against her. 

Eventually, lulled by his steady breathing and the haze of pleasure that still lingers in the room, she drifts off to sleep herself.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't listen to Azalea Banks on repeat when writing fic. You will write shameless cunnilingus without even meaning to. #kanyeshrug


End file.
